


Elephant

by Loftec



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Medication, and awkward comfort, and body issues, i guess, post 5x12, some hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 03:58:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8386327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loftec/pseuds/Loftec
Summary: It’s been a while, thirty-four days to be exact. And add another month and a bit to that one fluke of a Tuesday night, and you have an ironic dry spell of sixty-nine sexless days. At first it was about the new meds, Ian knows this, Mickey is a goddamned saint about new cocktails messing with their sex life. But somewhere along the line it became about something else. Inspired by a tumblr anon who asked ifuckinlikeit for something fluffy and body positive, and this kinda popped up and I figured the more the merrier? Hang on for anomalously's fic though 'cause it's guaranteed excellence and I can't wait to read it myself. TW for body issues, see notes at the beginning of fic for details.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Mature for some sexual content.
> 
>  
> 
> Warning for body issues. Ian is on new meds that mess with his metabolism, causing rapid weight gain. It's from his point of view and he has a lot of negative, harmful thoughts about his own body. It ends on a positive note, but I still tried to keep them in character so it's not strictly as fluffy as it could have been? Also awkward provocative dancing.

 

 

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Ian jogs up the stairs and through the front door, taking care not to slam it too hard behind himself. Mickey was still asleep when he left and he knows his boyfriend has been up a lot during the night and is well deserving of a good sleep-in. Svetlana had fitted them with a taped up baby monitor she got from goodwill, insisting that they pull their weight with Yevgeny’s increasingly fussy nightly habits. Usually, Ian is the one to stir at the slightest whine transmitted through the crackling plastic speaker, but last night he didn’t wake up until Yevgeny was full on wailing and even then his limbs felt like they were glued to the sheets. Mickey had muttered something he didn’t understand and he’d half expected to be pushed off the mattress when he felt it dip behind him. He’d still been trying to get up when Yevgeny’s cries suddenly stuttered and then slowly started calming down to soft sobs, to silence, and eventually he’d felt Mickey return, sighing and shifting closer into Ian’s warmth, his skin a little cold as he snuggled them back together and pulled the covers up to their ears.

And Ian’s last thought before he drifted back to sleep had been ’please’. _I don’t want to do this to him again_.

But waking up he felt fine, a little antsy and uncomfortable, but mostly fine. Able to get up and check on Yevgeny, pull on some sweats and a t-shirt, adding a thin windbreaker and a beanie after a quick glance out at the early October morning, light breaking over the neighbor’s roof and the night’s low temperature still clinging to the edges of the window.

Ian is a little worried that there might be something wrong with Yevgeny, messing with the toddler’s sleep, but whenever the nagging doubt and worry start taking over he tries to remember what his therapist says about that being part of his anxiety, and a stepping stone for his mania and paranoia. There’s gotta be some sick irony in being paranoid about your paranoia but Ian’s not really in a place to laugh about it, yet. Maybe he never will be.

And Yevgeny always seems alright in the mornings, sleeping heavily just like his dad, so Ian tries to imagine that it’s just a phase and that it will pass. Like most things. So he went for a run like he does every morning, the cold, fresh air and steady rhythm of his feet hitting the ground clearing some of the fog, helping to silence some of the worry, if not quite squashing the constant churning of his new self-conscious obsession. He tries to focus on his breathing, remember his exercises. In, one, out, two three four. Count all the reasons he’s fighting. One Mickey, two Yevgeny, three himself. It’s a short list, and Lip thinks it should be the other way around. Maybe. Maybe Ian doesn’t feel like he deserves to put himself first, yet. Maybe he never will.

Hanging up his windbreaker in the hallway, he toes off his shoes and wipes off his sweaty brow with the hem of his t-shirt, cringing that off too as he walks into his and Mickey’s bedroom, smiling a little at the sight of his boyfriend splayed out on his belly like a beached starfish across the whole kingsized bed. Ian turns and catches a glimpse of his own reflection in their new full-size mirror by the dresser, looking almost like a stranger in the glum light.

Bunching up the wet t-shirt he wipes it down his face again and hangs it over his neck, stepping closer to the mirror and frowning at his distorted twin. 

He’s pale, but he can’t really do anything about that, a blush of freckles flaring up across his shoulders along with the redness on his chest and up his neck from the run. His face is okay, one of his early meds gave him some pretty bad acne and he’d been secretly happy about it when enough ’real’ factors pushed his doctor to prescribe a new cocktail for him that didn’t cause that specific reaction. And sure, maybe those meds came with a whole other bag of side effects that hadn’t been a lot of fun either, but they’d eventually led to a combination that has so far been working really well. His sex life is still shot to hell and his metabolism has gone completely off the rails, but he hasn’t felt that desperate need to cut Mickey loose in months, he hasn’t felt like he’s a danger to their kid, he hasn’t felt like life could be better than spending it with his family, he hasn’t felt like dying is the only viable option. Instead he’s felt like he’s starting to remember who he is, and like that person might actually not be gone but just buried under a lot of shit, slowly fighting his way to the surface.

Which is why he really has to talk himself out of lying and claiming that the meds aren’t working, right now, just so they can start over and try something else. He feels the desperation and panic slowly rise with the prickling behind his eyes as he grabs at the fat rolling off the waistband of his sweats and he tries to suck in his gut when he flattens out his hands and smoothes them across his stomach and up where his abs used to be, grabbing on to his fucking boob-sized pecs. Soft and squishy and gross. He shakes his head and pulls in a quick breath, willing himself to calm down. He hasn’t cried in months and he’s not looking to start now, not over something as stupid as fucking body issues. 

No, he just needs to work harder, get a gym membership maybe. If he takes on some more shifts at the diner then he could afford one of those night-memberships without stealing money away from the family. It won’t be easy being away from home more than he already is, but that’s his problem. It’s not something he can put on Mickey, or on his therapist, or even really blame on his meds, this is all on his own weak mind that hasn’t been the same since West Point fell through. He just needs to stop whining and work harder.

Ignoring the fat guy in the mirror he pulls on a fresh t-shirt and walks through the house to the kitchen, reading the note Svetlana’s left on the fridge as he pours himself a glass of water and downs half of it before drinking the rest at a more measured pace. The second he’s done he leaves the glass in the sink and goes into the living room to push the coffee table to the side and get down on the decently clean carpet, wedging his toes in under the sofa for leverage and launching his upper body into a a set of sit-ups, counting them out under his breath on each measured exhale.

When he gets to fifty he turns around for another fifty pushups, and with his arms shaking on the last one he flips back on his ass and sets out to do it all again, his abs aching before he even hits double digits. 

”Oh.”

Ian takes the opportunity to pause when he notices Mickey standing in the doorway to their room, rubbing roughly at an eye and then leaving it to blink and raise his eyebrows at Ian, clearly not impressed with what he sees. Ian folds his arms around his knees to hold himself upright and tries to look unaffected as he shoots his boyfriend a small smile. He looks really good, Ian always loved the look of Mickey in the mornings, generally a little rumpled and all his sharp edges softened by sleep. He almost looks pliable, in some way, and while cocky, shit-talking, punning-and-gunning afternoon Mickey always has a certain way of stirring shit up inside Ian, this is something else all together.

This is slow morning sex, this is warmth when the heat’s been turned off in the middle of winter. It’s long breakfasts with Yevgeny, with pancakes and that one cup of coffee he shouldn’t have but Mickey doesn’t bitch about anymore, sighing and giving Ian a quick peck on the lips, passing him to sit next to Yevgeny and drown his pancakes in syrup. This is that one tank with the stain that won’t go out even though Ian knows he’s washed it at least twenty times, it’s Ian’s plaid boxers, hanging off Mickey’s hips like shorts, looking so damn good around his thick thighs. It’s his soft, pale skin under Ian’s hands, ass being pushed apart and cushioning Ian’s cheeks as he goes to town, licking him open to the tune of his purring moans.

Just looking at him and Ian can already feel the want pooling in his gut. It’s been a while, thirty-four days to be exact. And add another month and a bit to that one fluke of a Tuesday night, and you have an ironic dry spell of sixty-nine sexless days. At first it was about the new meds, Ian knows this, Mickey is a goddamned saint about new cocktails messing with their sex life. But somewhere along the line it became about something else, Ian got his drive back but at the same time he started feeling bloated and gross, and he wouldn’t initiate anything himself. So nothing happened. And with the weight Ian’s gained the last couple of weeks there’s no way Mickey hasn’t noticed, no way this isn’t part of the reason why he never even brings it up anymore. Ian can’t blame him.

Mickey rolls his eyes at him, as though he can read his mind like it’s written large across his face and he thinks Ian’s being a fucking idiot, and sucks on his teeth as he walks through the room and disappears out of sight.

”You really gotta stop this shit in the mornings,” he mutters, voice disappearing out into the kitchen, ”grunting like you were fuckin’ jackin’ off out here, or something. Woke me up.”

Ian doesn’t answer, he just lets go of his knees and manages another ten before Mickey walks past him and sits down on the couch by his feet, cup of coffee in one hand and a freshly toasted pop tart in his mouth. He grabs it gingerly between his thumb and pointer finger and takes a bite of it, crumbs falling down to land right on the tank’s permanent stain. Mickey says it’s from a greasy burrito but Ian’s pretty certain he was there when it happened, and that it’s the forever preserved remains of a half decent chop suey.

”Fuck is everyone?” Mickey asks, not bothering to finish chewing first.

Ian shrugs and heaves himself up one last time to hook his elbows around his knees again.

”Svet left a note,” he says, ”took Yev to this activity thing in the park she was talking about last night, I guess.”

”She did?” Mickey looks like he genuinely doesn’t know what Ian’s talking about, eyebrows high as he takes another bite.

”Yeah, Mick,” Ian sighs with an involuntary smile, Mickey’s inability to do two things at once is really quite endearing when it’s not Ian he stops listening to just ’cause the TV’s on, ”Mandy didn’t come home last night, bet you didn’t notice that either.”

”I did notice, douchebag,” Mickey mutters but can’t quite hide the way his lips quirk up, ”bitch even texted me, woke me up at 2 AM just to tell me she found some loser to take her home, like I care.”

”Oh, Mandy got lucky?” Ian asks, his whole stomach aching as he laughs and has to let go of his knees to shield his face at the same time, Mickey putting his coffee down to hit him in the head with one of their threadbare throw pillows. ”Good for her!”

”You guys are the literal opposite of funny when you pull this shit,” Mickey mutters and rests the pillow on his lap, ready to strike again if need be, no doubt, getting crumbs all over it right away with another bite.

”We’re a riot, you love us,” Ian states and drops back down on the floor to do another ten, at least.

”Hey,” Mickey says on the count of four, pop tart gone and eyes on Ian every time his elbows hit his knees with another labored exhale, ”wouldya stop for a sec?”

” _Five_ ,” Ian puffs and shakes his head on the way down, ”five more. _Six_.”

”Sure,” Mickey scoffs and puts out a foot to push it against Ian’s chest when he comes up for seven, Ian swatting him away and starting over from five just to annoy him, ”you wanna just stay in today? Get pizza and watch movies, hang out?”

” _Nine_ , no pizza, _ten_ ,” Ian flops down on the carpet and stretches out his legs, resting his feet on the sofa next to Mickey, crossing his ankles, ”nope on the bread, and way too much fat in the cheese.”

”Whatever,” Mickey mutters and gets up so abruptly Ian’s feet almost bounce off the couch. Ian dips his head back to see upside-down Mickey disappear back into the kitchen.

Ian lies on the floor for a couple of seconds, brows slowly bunching into a confused frown. He moves his hands from his stomach and lets them rest over his ribs instead, breathing a little easier when his fingers get to tap against something firm. Then he sighs and gets up to go find his morning Mickey, who is soft and pliant and hot as fuck, but nine out of ten times also a grumpy asshole.

”The baby keep you up last night?” he asks, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe, watching Mickey scratch his ass and peruse the fridge, head almost all the way in there.

”Nah,” Mickey offers but still won’t face Ian when he gives up on the fridge and turns around to lean against the kitchen counter, pack of smokes in his hands.

”So,” Ian starts and frowns when Mickey keeps ignoring him, fishing out a cigarette and putting it to his lips, ”you wake up on the wrong side of the bed or something? Or are you seriously pissed at me for not wanting pizza right now.”

Mickey inclines his head but doesn’t say anything, shaking the lighter when it does nothing but spark.

”Shit, Mick,” Ian huffs, ”you can still get pizza, just sayin’ I don’t want any.”

For some fucking reason, that gets Mickey to look at him, cigarette still unlit and hanging off his bottom lip, a split second of confusion in his eyes before he’s right back to scowling. Ian suddenly feels somehow caught out, and he knows what’s coming when he can’t help shrugging his shoulders up, like his whole body is bracing for Mickey’s overpowering concern.

”You feelin’ okay?” Mickey asks and Ian is mostly just relieved that the question no longer pisses him off for no reason. He looks at Mickey now and all he sees is how much he cares, slowly removing his cigarette and roaming his eyes over Ian’s face, looking for a problem to fix.

”Yeah,” Ian says and winces, dipping his head and forcing himself to say something, deciding that Mickey deserves to know if only so he won’t have to worry unnecessarily, ”I feel fine, it’s just… feels like we got an elephant in the room, you know?”

Ian’s ill-timed attempt at humor seems to fall flat, Mickey’s eyes drifting and frown deepening as he tries to figure out what Ian’s talking about.

”The fuck are you talking about?”

”Me,” Ian sighs and closes his eyes, jaw kinda locking in discomfort around his words, ”I’m the elephant.”

He opens his eyes when Mickey doesn’t say anything, just to see him stuck in that same expression of utter confusion.

”I’m fat,” Ian blurts out, not sure what it means when Mickey’s eyes widen and his brows unfurl to climb up his forehead, ”it’s okay though, I promise. I got it under control. Gonna eat better and been thinking about taking another shift so I can join a gym and-”

”Like fuck you are!” Mickey exclaims, cutting him off and pulling his attention. He looks desperate in a way Ian doesn’t think he’s seen him since Ian had tried to break them up for the last time. A year, it’s been a year and Ian’s already managed to break their good streak by getting his boyfriend upset over something stupid.

”If I cover another shift-”

”Don’t give a fuck about the money, Ian,” Mickey cuts him off again, ”what is this, huh? Have you talked to Lane about this?”

”Jesus, Mick,” Ian pleads, wincing and shaking his head at Mickey’s excessive worry, ”I’m not making this up, alright? I’ve gained like twenty pounds in a month, I know you’ve noticed.”

”This is so fucking stupid,” Mickey groans and pulls a hand over his face, ”yeah, sure, you’re bigger! You also just fucking turned nineteen, Ian, this is kinda just one of those things that happen when you grow up, man.”

Ian rolls his eyes and huffs, feeling himself thrum with agitation and discomfort. He didn’t want to have this conversation, he knew Mickey wouldn’t take him seriously.

”I like the way you look,” Mickey then says, out of the fucking blue, and he looks unnervingly sincere when Ian glances up at him, ”and if you wanna do a fucking jiggle-contest we both know who’s gonna win that one, and it sure as fuck ain’t you.”

Ian has no idea what to say to that, maybe Mickey’s got a bit more jiggle to him over all, but that’s just the way he looks. It looks great on Mickey.

”If you’re fat, Ian, what the fuck does that make me?” Mickey says, pressing his lips together and raising his eyebrows when Ian looks at him. ”Jesus… no-, you know what? Fuck you for making me talk about this shit.”

”It’s not the same,” Ian tries, and it sounds ridiculous when he says it out loud, ”you signed up for this when I looked different… I don’t blame you for not being attracted to me right now, I’m just asking you to give me some time, so I can work on it.”

”Who said I’m not attracted to you?” Mickey asks, voice climbing a whole octave towards the end.

”Come on, Mick,” Ian sighs, ”it’s not like you’ve been dying to get it, lately. Pretty obvious why.”

”Should fucking hope so,” Mickey points at him with the hand still holding the unlit cigarette, ”I’m your fucking boyfriend, Ian, I can tell when you’re not feelin’ it. Just thought it still was ’cause of the meds, but I guess that’s my fucking bad, huh?”

”Mick-,” Ian starts when Mickey just shakes his head at him and shoves past him through the door. 

Ian lingers in the kitchen for a few seconds, fighting against the sinking feeling in his chest, before he turns and walks after Mickey. He’s back on the couch, slouched down and knees spread, cigarette between his lips and smoke billowing out his nostrils. Ian watches him for a little while, he always did love how smoke seems to caress Mickey in a way it never does anyone else, loved the way his hands move as though he’s always got something burning stuck between his pointer and middle finger.

Ian’s put so much shit on Mickey, he didn’t want to put this on him, too. He never would have thought Mickey had insecurities of his own, and now it all building up between them like another obstacle and again, again, again, it’s all Ian’s fault.

”Sorry,” Ian tells him and holds his gaze for a meaningful beat when Mickey looks up, before he bows his head and moves. He should go take a shower, figure out what to say to make this mess better. He’s never been very good with words, he’s kinda relied on Mickey understanding him anyway. Relied on chemistry and physicality, on their bodies always being in synch even if their minds weren’t. 

”Gallagher,” Mickey calls out behind him, stopping him in his track, ”you remember that shitty birthday present you gave me a couple of years ago?”

Ian frowns and can’t help turning around and taking a few curious steps back into the living room, until he’s got his eyes on Mickey again, not even trying to mask his surprise at the sudden change of tone and the sight of his small, pleased smirk.

”Sure you do,” Mickey continues when Ian says nothing, ”you never gave me any of that paperwork you promised but verbal agreements are legal, far as I know, and you didn’t mention any kinda expiration date, so…”

Ian can feel his eyes bug out with the realization slowly creeping in. ”No.”

”Yes,” Mickey grins wider and holds up his phone, glancing at it as he navigates through its apps. He bites his lip and looks back up at Ian when a slow, pulsating beat comes through the phone’s speakers, and he lays it down on the couch and puts the cigarette back to his lips.

”Mick,” Ian begs and crosses his arms, no way he can do this right now. Like this.

”Less talkin’ more grindin’, come on,” Mickey prompts him, nodding lightly, ”got this baby on repeat and there’s nowhere I gotta be today, you’re not getting out of this.”

”I stink,” Ian tries, gesturing towards his body. The sweat has dried by now, but he feels like he’s walking around in it, reeking with it.

”Cute,” Mickey dismisses his excuse, ”if you think I don’t like it when you’re all sweaty and worked up, then I don’t know where the fuck you’ve been the last five years but it sure as hell ain’t _all here_.”

Mickey taps at his temple, as if to underline ’all here’, and Ian huffs when he feels his cheeks burn. He knows that Mickey’s just trying to make him feel better without it coming out all condescending, but it still feels forced. Mickey was never into his dancing anyway, he just hung around the club to keep an eye on him, Ian thinks he always knew this even though he might be more _aware_ of it now, retrospectively. The reason why Mickey never cashed in his promised birthday lap dance is most likely because he never wanted it, so Ian can’t really see how he could possibly, _actually_ , want one now.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, tries to remember how it felt to stand on that stage and have all eyes on him, to feel that confidence flow through him. He doesn’t miss a lot from those day, but he misses that feeling. He’s not sure if he can have that feeling back, or if it’s something tied up in that rush of mania, that natural high that felt so good right until it pushed him over the edge.

The song stops and, true to Mickey’s threat, starts again. Almost involuntarily, Ian can feel his hips move along with the beat, in small, tight circles.

”Uh-huh,” Mickey says and it’s like something releases inside Ian, forcing his eyes open and fixating on Mickey, knees spread wide and arms splayed over the back of the couch, ashes hanging off the cigarette still at his smirking lips, eyes firmly on Ian.

Ian makes a quick decision. Even if he’s just faking it, he needs to do something right now. He needs to be the guy who didn’t back down, who never hesitated, who knew how to be assertive when Mickey wanted him to be, and attract him and take him and give him everything he needed. Ian steps forward and stands in front of Mickey, and he grabs the hem of his sweaty t-shirt and pulls it over his head, dropping it to the floor.

Mickey is flat out staring at him when Ian walks in between his knees and reaches out to slowly take the cigarette from his lips and, stepping back, put it to his own mouth, letting his lips form around the slightly wet filter and smoke flow through his system. Closing his eyes again he tries to focus on the familiar scent of nicotine and the pulse of the music, gently swinging his arms and swaying his hips. After a few bars he can feel himself getting a little lost in it, hands coming up to his face as his body moves with a tentative roll, and when he touches his hands to his neck and drags them down his chest and stomach he can hear Mickey pull in a quick breath.

He thinks he probably looks really fucking stupid, and like an idiot he blinks his eyes open to look down at his boyfriend, not wanting to see his reaction but also craving his approval. Mickey’s eyes are stuck to him like he’s magnetic, heavy, lust-filled gaze following his movements and the tip of his tongue running along his bottom lip, teeth biting into it.

He’s hard, Ian’s worn boxers tenting over his erection. He looks fucking perfect, sitting in front of Ian and wanting him in the most solid, basic meaning of the word.

”Yeah?” Ian asks and rolls his hips in one of his less subtle moves. Mickey looks up at his face at the sound of his voice and then down at his own, obvious arousal, and then up at Ian again, smirking and shrugging and sinking down a little on the couch, resting his hands on his thighs, bracketing and highlighting the effect Ian’s got on him.

”Turnin’ me on, Gallagher,” he grunts, and then smirks again, ”even despite your fucking awful dancing.”

Ian barks out a surprised laugh and putting the almost burnt out cigarette to his lips he steps up to Mickey and straddles his thighs, forcing his knees together and pushing down a little against his dick, feeling his own shy cock stirring and finally responding again to the heat that’s been broiling in the pit of his stomach ever since he first met Mickey, years ago. He grabs the back of the couch with one hand and brings up the other to remove the cigarette, leaning closer to stop just short of touching his lips to Mickey’s, slowly exhaling a lungful of smoke into his open mouth. Mickey moves in to connect them but Ian moves with him, maintaining that little bit of distance for as long as he’s got the willpower to do so.

He stubs out the cigarette against the back of the couch, already littered with tiny black marks, and leans back again, locking his elbow and rolling his hips. Mickey hums and lands his hands on Ian’s thighs, sliding them up his sides and sinking the tips of his fingers into his back fat. Ian expects to feel uncomfortable, weeks of spiraling telling him he couldn’t let Mickey touch him like this until he was _ready_ , but fuck all that. Mickey is touching him and suddenly he’s not so sure why he’s been denying himself this feeling for so long.

”No touching,” he says, because those used to be the rules, his voice low and hands contradicting his words by landing on top of Mickey’s to keep them on him, to guide them around, pushing into his soft stomach and up his chest, stoking the fire more with every inch travelled.

”Fuck you’re gorgeous,” Mickey groans and licks his lips, bucking up against Ian’s ass with his eyes steadily on their hands, moving up Ian’s scruffy chest. Ian feels flushed and instantly discouraged by the praise, Mickey never says stuff like that to him and him saying it now just feels forced. He drops his hands off Mickey’s and sits up on his knees, moving to get off.

Mickey’s arms are around his waist in an instant, holding him still and forcing him back down.

”Hey,” he says and Ian finds himself staring down into his blown out eyes, shadowed by a confused frown, ”that alright? If I wanna say that shit?”

Ian sighs and sinks back into Mickey’s hold, slowly rubbing against him like a familiar background beat to this new, intimately vulnerable thing going on between them.

”Only if you mean it,” he says and isn’t sure if he likes how he sounds when he does. But Mickey just nods.

”Gotta know I’ve always been sayin’ it,” Mickey mumbles and swallows, eyes dipping to somewhere down Ian’s cheek, ”only never with words, right?”

Ian knows, it took a while for him to really see it, _that look_ , but once he did there was no unseeing it. It’s a whole other thing hearing it though, and Ian is surprised by how profoundly his body is reacting to Mickey’s words. He licks his lips and thinks he might be shaking a little when he nods, their noses almost bumping their faces are so close. 

”God, Mickey,” he says, like a fucking prayer, and closes his eyes because this feels like some kinda irrevocable moment, ”you’re perfect.”

Mickey is staring at him when he opens his eyes again, eyes wide and blue and searching into his core for some kinda answer Ian isn’t sure he’s got. He’s at a loss for what to do for about two seconds, but then he feels his lips being pulled into a small, long-lost, fucking _confident_ smirk, and he wraps his arms around Mickey’s head and sinks their faces together, breathes against his mouth for a beat before he fits himself closer to suck gently at Mickey’s bottom lip, open up to let him in and carefully push his tongue into his warm mouth. Lets his body pick up the slack when his words continue to come up short.

Ever since he was fifteen, Ian’s been walking around with this _knowledge_ of what Mickey does to him. He wonders why he’s never tried to tell him about it, tried to explain it to him. Asked him if he felt the same way.

If every time he sees Ian, his whole body sings.

Later, when he’s not so distracted by Mickey’s fingers digging into his back, mouth kissing and licking down his salty body, his tight warmth and quiet moans when he’s opened up and takes Ian all the way in, pushing back to meet his every thrust, reaching back to grab on to his shoulder, neck, hair. When he’s not so overwhelmed by the way he smells and sounds and feels, familiar and never lost and beautiful, Ian will decide that starving himself or wasting time at a gym won’t do much to help him be more like himself, or be better for Mickey.

But maybe learning to listen, and learning how to tell Mickey everything he deserves to know could be a good place to start.

 

 

.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Idk if this would make anyone feel better, but I hope so? Anyway, if some dick tries to tell you stupid shit about the way you look, send them my way and I'll fuck 'em up. *rips off sleeves and awkwardly writes obscenities on knuckles*
> 
> :*


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